The Winchester Rules
by estrafalaria103
Summary: Some of the things Sam and Dean do are just WEIRD. Like wearing so much clothing when other people are wearing tank tops, finding bizarre, weird hotels, and researching in bars. Find out where these little idiosyncracies came from. Chapter Five Up
1. Why the Winchesters Wear Layers

One: Why the Winchesters Always Wear So Much Clothing

John's happy enough. It's a rare emotion for him, so he decides to wallow in it, really drink it in, enjoy. The boys are acting happy, too, though he can never really tell if it's for real or just an act. He's a good enough father to know that sometimes they pretend in front of him – pretend something doesn't hurt after being thrown around by a werewolf, pretend that the half-frozen Chinese food tastes good, pretend they're not terrified. . .yeah, he's good enough to recognize that, but not a good enough father to do anything about it.

He sits on the playground bench, watches as they run around. Just kids, he realizes. Damn. How long ago were they just kid, like everyone else here? Dean's leaning up against the swings, teeth gleaming in the sun, chatting up some girl wearing too much make-up. A little kid is swinging beside them. She must be a baby-sitter.

Sam's sitting on another bench, just kitty corner from John. His long legs are outstretched, crossed at the ankle, a small paperback held loosely in his right hand. His hand is big enough that it seems to engulf the book.

They're down south, Arizona, and it's _hot_. John's wearing his leather jacket – even when he's happy, he can't take the damn thing off, because you never know when a demon will show up, throw you across the street, and damn it, but road burn is a _bitch_. The boys, though. . .well, they might not be kids anymore, but they still have an innocence and hope that he doesn't. Dean's wearing just his wifebeater by now, his button-up probably lost to all eternity. Oh well, John thinks. He'd rather replace a shirt because it was lost than because it was shredded or bled on.

Sam's more careful. He's wearing just a t-shirt, but he has a blazer, carefully folded over the back of his bench. Sam's always been the smart one. The careful one. John closes his eyes, tilts his head toward the sun. There are a pair of women just behind him. He listens to them, idly.

"I've got to get back to work," Woman #1 says. "I mean. . .I can't handle this. Just sitting in the house watching the kids."

"You've always got your soaps," Woman #2 says. "And the playground."

"Oh, because this here's a riot," Woman #1 says. "Watching a bunch of rugrats. . .well hello."

"Hmm?"

"Look at the hottie near the swings," Woman #1 sounds like she's drooling. Curious, now, John opens one eye, and looks at the swings. The only people there are the kid, the baby-sitter, and Dean.

"Eye candy," Woman #1 says.

"Check out the sweetheart on the bench," Woman #2 says. John smiles, thinking they're talking about him. But he considers a moment. They can't even see him, not from behind. But the only other person sitting on a bench is. . .

"Boys," John says, barks it out so it's an order. "We're leaving."

Dean, bless his heart, doesn't balk at all, just dumps the girl and follows John out. Sam rolls his eyes, but grabs his jacket and pulls it on. John can almost hear the women sighing.

That does it, he thinks. New Winchester family rule. . .never show bare shoulders.

* * * * *

They're sitting at the café, waiting for the waitress to come back with their orders. Dean and Sam and idly flipping the papers from their straws at one another. John glances at them. Good. They both have T-shirts on today. He can't ask them to wear much more than that. . .not when it's so ungodly hot outside.

His informant, a middle-aged psychic, sits down across from him, next to Sam.

"Hello," Sam says, politeness drilled into him far more effectively than his brother. Dean takes the momentary distration as an opportunity to fire paper straight into his brother's face. John ignores his son's antics. This is too important.

"So this ghost," He says, leaning forward, but the woman doesn't seem to be paying any attention to them. He figures that maybe it's a psychic thing, that she's looking off into the middle distance or something, so he plows on. "It can sense fear, and that's what it feeds off of, right?"

The woman doesn't even respond. Her mouth is a little bit open. John sighs, follows her eyesight. . .straight to Dean, who is sucking up soda at an alarmingly fast rate.

"Sorry," John says. "He's a bit of a slob." Dean smiles at that, all white teeth and twinkling green eyes. The woman's hand shoots to her heart, as though it suffered a sudden pang. Oh no, John, thinks, not again.

"Ma'am, are you all right?" Sam asks, concern written across his face. The woman turns to look at him, goes an even paler color.

"I'm fu-fine, thank you," she manages to get out. Wordlessly, Dean pushes his soda toward her. Sam takes over.

"Maybe you should drink something," Sam says, but John has had quite enough of this.

New Winchester rule, he thinks. Bad hair, and always wear two layers.

* * * * *

They've finally made it to the house. The boys are in sullen moods. Dean keeps running his hands over his short locks now – no more goldilocks, or wooing the girls by sliding hands through long curls, oh no, John thinks, a little vindictively. Sam just keeps griping, wondering why he's not allowed to wash his hair.

"I can't see through these stupid bangs," he grouses.

They're also not happy about the t-shirt, button-down, corduroy jacket thing in 90 degree weather. He tells them its necessary when fighting demons. Cuts down on rugburn or road burn. Which is true, but not necessarily important when fighting a ghost. He doesn't tell them that.

They push through the doors, and John sternly reminds the boys of their orders.

"We know, Dad," Sam says wearily. "We stay by the doors."

"And the gun?" John presses, because one can never be too careful.

"Shoot first, ask questions later," Dean states his favorite motto. John nods, moves deeper into the house.

It seems like an open and cut case. A haunted house, with a ghost who feeds off fear. Should be easy to destroy, as he isn't afraid of it. But as the lights flicker and the minutes kick by, he realizes something else. He might not be afraid of ghosts, but there's something he definitely is afraid of.

Immediately he spins on his heels and begins pelting toward the front door. Where his heart almost stops, and he has to remind himself to breathe, remind hiself that fear makes it stronger and fear will kill his boys.

They're pushed up against the wall, held up. The gun dangles uselessly from Dean's left hand. He's frowning at the thing, full lips pressed together. Sam is wiggling, back and forth, his back arching against the wall, chest pushing forward. The ghost, meanwhile, fully materialized, is starting at the two of them, licking her lips.

"Well now, pretties," she is saying. "You look too good to eat. Luckily your father isn't so beautiful."

John creeps a little closer, surprised that she doesn't seem to notice him. She moves to Sam, first, traces his cheekbones with one finger.

"Dimples," she says sweetly, and then move to Dean, reaches a finger up.

"Don't touch me, bitch," he orders. The ghost giggles.

"Eyelashes," she says. John blasts her with the rock salt, and she disappears, a thousand little vapors in place. The boys fall to the ground, and Dean is up immediately, the gun securely in his hands. Sam takes another minute to get up.

"That was _weird_," he complains.

"Out, now," John orders, and for once the boys do as he says without complaint.

New Winchester rule, John thinks wearily. Three to four layers at all times. Nothing fitted. Maybe if they look like frickin' topheavy thugs women will stop falling in love with them.

John loves his wife, but just for once he wishes she hadn't been so damned pretty.


	2. Why the Winchesters Stay in Cheap Motels

Two: Why the Winchesters Always Stay in Crazy Motels

John Winchester likes tacky motel rooms. He isn't ashamed to say it. There's something homey about them, something more personal when a room has mismatched curtains, 70s décor, and bowling pins hanging from the ceiling. More personal, anyway, than the generic rooms with their landscape paintings and berber carpet.

The boys don't like them, though. Or, rather, Sam doesn't. Dean's never had much in the way of taste: he probably couldn't tell the difference between the Ritz and a Day's Inn. Sam, on the other hand, always runs a finger through the dust, and scrunches up his face.

So, for Sam's ninth birthday John decides to splurge. He checks them in to the biggest, nicest place in East Lansing. Which isn't saying much, but the boys stare at it like it's a palace.

"Wow, Dad," Dean says in awe, sitting down on one of the queen beds. "This is almost as nice as home."

"What do you mean?" Sam asks, nearly bouncing in his excitement. He doesn't remember the house that Dean is talking about, the place that they'd moved from when Sam was only five years old. To him, this is the nicest place imaginable.

"Sweet. . ." Dean says again. John just smiles. It's nice to be able to please the kids.

He hangs up his things, reminds them sternly not to open the door to anyone, and tells them he'll be back by ten. He even sets his watch, to show how serious he is. He figures he should be able to follow it this time. . .tonight is just research. The hunt was to start the following day, which was fortunately a school day, keeping the boys out of danger.

The library is incredibly hot, stifling almost, and John can feel the sweat rolling down his face. The librarian keeps throwing him funny looks, and he can swear it's her generating the heat. She keeps glancing at him, then goes to close a window, takes another gander, and turns off the fan.

Like she wants to get rid of him.

Or like she enjoys the heat.

John tries not to tense up at the thought. His finger freezes on the page that he's turned to – of course. Golems, formed from hardened clay and dessert sands _would_ enjoy heat. So if they enjoy the heat so much . .if _she_ enjoys the heat so much. . .

He hands her a card for the motel, forces himself to walk out, forces himself not to look over his shoulder, even though he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. She's looking at him. He's certain of it. But it's almost ten o'clock, and he promised Sam. He so rarely kept his promises. . .and besides, there was a full icebox in the hotel room.

Any thoughts he's had of the golem disappear as he turns the corner to their suite. Sam is sitting outside, legs crossed, a pouty look on his face.

"Sam, what the hell?" John runs to his younger son, drops to his knees, instinctively checks for injuries. Sam just frowns more.

"Dean kicked me out," he says.

This doesn't sound like Dean at all, and now John is even more worried. Dean would sell his soul for his younger brother. . .he certainly wouldn't set him in harms' way. A sickening feeling takes up residence in his stomach. What if the golem somehow got around him. . .what if it's inside. . .with his son. . .

Without a word, Sam holds up a walkie-talkie. It's been rigged to the on position. . .every sound made will be caught up. John feels a little foolish.

"Dean has a friend," Sam said. "He told me to wait outside for an hour."

"Really?" John asks, and now there's another feeling in his stomach, but it's not a very nice one. "How long ago was that?"

Seriously, Sam consults his watch. "Um. . .fifty-seven minutes."

"Good enough," John says, and he's too angry to look for his room key, he just lifts his legs and kicks the door in. He wishes he were surprised by what he sees. He's not.

Despite the modifications to the boys' look several months ago, Dean still has a way with the ladies. Obviously. The boy peeks up over the covers now. There is another heaped body beside him.

"Hey, dad!" he says, brilliant smile flashing. "Have a good date with the books?"

"Not as good as yours, obviously," John says. He walks over and picks up the huddle of blankets, not even checking to see what is inside it. He can already guess. Blond and busty. Dean is nothing but predictable. He walks to the door and dumps the poor child outside, grabs Sams arms, and turns to face both boys.

"Dad," Sam says petulantly. "That's not how we're supposed to treat guests."

"Oh, come on," Dean says. He's holding a pillow in front of himself, though he certainly isn't covering something that John hasn't seen before. He'd given the kid baths when he was younger, for Crist's sake! "You booked a gorgeous hotel room. Somebody had to get a use out of it!"

"It's my birthday," Sam pointed out.

"That's it," John says through gritted teeth. "New Winchester rule. We go back to the tackiest hotels ever."

"Why?" Sam whines. "I like it here. Even the hallway is better than our normal places."

That's when the golem attacks. In retrospect, John thinks that it worked out for the best. He told the boys that nice hotels attract demons. Close enough to the truth.


	3. Why Sam Always Does the Stitches

John Winchester puts down the phone and turns around slowly. He looks dangerous. He knows, because he's practiced this look in the mirror many, many times. With two teenage boys who seem incapable of staying out of trouble, he figured he'd better practice the ScaryDadLook.

Clearly the practice has paid off. Dean and Sam are both sitting on the bed. Sam, not yet through his growth spurt, has feet kicking idly in the air. Both of them have wide-open eyes. Sam's are curious. Dean looks slightly terrified.

"That was your principal," John says. He looks at Dean. His older son gapes, mouth opening, closing. He crosses his arms across his chest.

"Dad, I swear, I didn't do anything!" he says. John frowns some more. Dean bites his lip.

"Fine," he says. "I might have punched Jeremy Sumpter. But the kid was being a dick."

"Well, the principal wants to meet with me," John says. He leans over, grabs Dean's ear, just like when he was seven or eight. Drags the boy to his feet. "Let's go."

Inside he's thinking, why can't you be more like your brother? Sam gets good grades, never causes any problems. Parent teacher conferences are light a bright ray of sunshine when it comes to Sam – your son is so bright, he works so hard, he's so insightful, he's such a pleasure to have in class.

Dean on the other hand. . .he doesn't take his work seriously, he can be distracting in class, it's not that he's stupid, he just doesn't _apply_ himself.

John is still towing his son by the ear, deposits him ungracefully in the passenger seat of the Impala. Dean is glowering now, slouched against the door. John has been thinking these thoughts, but he doesn't say them. Because Sam's teachers are right, he _is_ smart and insightful. If John were to say "be more like your brother" Dean would have a smart-ass reply, but he would take it seriously. Sam, on the other hand would go off. John knows. He's been there.

The ride to the school is silent. Dean is staring out the window. John feels a moment worth of guilt. Dean's 15 now. He's at the age when he should be starting to think about college, start to worry about his grades. But he doesn't. Tells his teachers it doesn't matter. Says he's never going to college. It's realistic, but it's also just a little sad.

John squashes that last thought. It's not sad. Dean likes this life. He's chosen it.

They pull up to the school, John turns to his son, wonders if he'll have to grab the boy by the ears again. But Dean leaves the car of his own volition. Shakes out his shoulders, plasters a shit-eating grin on his face. John glowers.

"Boy," he says gruffly, "you take that smile off your face before I smack it off."

Dean turns, white teeth still gleaming in the fading daylight. "Yes, sir," he says. The smile doesn't go away.

John sighs. He's only ever hit his boy twice. Dean knows it. Knows the third time isn't going to happen in a school parking lot. John sighs, shifts his shoulders in unconscious imitation of his son. Walks into the school.

It's one of the nicer ones they've been in, with the artwork in the hallway framed and carpet in all the classrooms. Sam loves it. He gets to take advanced classes here. Dean couldn't care less.

The office is hidden in the labyrinthean floorplan of the school, but Dean takes him there unfailingly. John lifts one eyebrow. They've only been here a week. Why, he wonders, does his son know the way to the office so well?

The secretary looks up when they come in. She's young, pretty. John doesn't smile at her. He's too pissed.

Dean might not be going to college, but he still needs to graduate high school. In the past year he's had two suspensions. John is not excited at the prospect of a third.

"Win—" he starts to say, but the secretary cuts him off.

"Hello there, Dean," she says chipperly. "Is this your father? Mr. Winchester, it is such a pleasure to meet you. Your son is the pride and joy of our office staff."

"I'm so sorry. . .what?" John has to stop in the middle. He turns to look at his boy. Office staff? Dean is blushing, just a little, steadfastly ignoring his father. He grins back at the secretary.

"Come on, Jessie," he says. "You know that you are the flower of this dump. Beauty growing in refuse."

The secretary titters, and now she's blushing more than the kid. John sighs. This had better not be some kind of sexual harassment thing. That had been it at the last school. The teacher had complained about Dean always flirting. Stupid woman, probably should have tried buttoning up her blouse, then.

A door opens. A stout, graying woman peeks out, beams when she sees Dean and John.

"Dean, what are you doing here?" she asks. "You don't work after four!"

John files this information away. He'd had no idea his son was working. He wonders how he feels about this. Hunting should be a fulltime gig. Then again. . .it explains where all the food has been appearing from. Not a benevolent spirit, after all. Oh well.

"Oh, your father!" She beams some more. John is getting suspicious now. Maybe it really _is_ a benevolent spirit, only it's haunting this school instead of their motel. Principals never like seeing John. _Never_. It's a Winchester Rule.

"Come on in," she says, waving at the door. "You didn't have to bring Dean, though."

"I didn't?" John asks at the same time that Dean says "He didn't?"

"No," The principal – Ms. Wesdorp, John thinks he name might be – sits down behind a massive oak desk. The size of it dwarfs her. "Unless. . .Dean, you're not having any problems, are you?"

"No, Ms. Wesdorp," Dean says. "I love it here. I'm surrounded by all of these—"

"Don't start with me," Ms. Wesdorp says, raising one finger, but she's blushing, now, too. John sighs. Maybe it's something in the water.

"Ma'am, I apologize for my son," John says. "Dean's always had a bit of a mouth on him. But it's really important to me that he not be kept away from school, so if we could just do a detention plan instead of suspension—"

"Detention?" Ms. Wesdorp looks surprised at the idea. "Suspension? Why would we take an A student like Dean out for suspension?"

"A student?" John is gaping, now, and Dean has turned tomato. Good God. John can feel an itching between his shoulderblades. This is the weirdest thing he's ever hunted, that's for sure. Some kind of a warm fuzzy demon. Not human, though, whatever it is. It's got to go.

"Sure," Ms. Wesdorp reaches down, pulls out a file, thumbs through it. "Sure, I know our little Dean has a bit of a. . .past. . .but once we took him out of remedial math and put him into the advanced placement class he's been doing fine."

"Advanced. . ." John is sputtering. He's having problems speaking. Damn spirit.

"Well, of course," Ms. Wesdorp says. "He did exceptionally on his placement tests. We think maybe part of the reason Dean had problems at his other schools is that he was bored. Not challenged. Dean, do you find the work here challenging?"

Dean screws his face up in a frown. "If you consider challenging to be way too much, then, yeah," he says.

Imagine that. Another downside to the moving from crapfest to crapfest. Huh, John thinks. Go figure. Two smart boys. All Mary's doing, of course.

"Well, if we're not here to talk about Dean, then what. . ."

Ms. Wesdorp folds her hands on her desk, leans forward and says, in a very serious tone, "it's about Sam."

"Sam?" Dean leans forward, more relaxed now that he knows he's not going to get grounded.

"Sam?" John echoes his son.

"Yes," Ms. Wesdorp says. "You see, he's been getting into a little trouble with some of the bullies at school."

"Sam's being bullied?" Dean asks. His fists are clenched.

"Not exactly."

"Sam's _being_ a bully?" John asks, equally confused.

"Not exactly." Ms. WEsdorp purses her lips. They are painted a strange fuschia color. "At first, I think maybe they tried to exert dominance, but your son is very. . .creative."

John and Dean are both staring blankly now. What is going on? Ms. WEsdorp sighs, tries again.

"Mr. Winchester, your son has been sneaking into the gym locker rooms and. . .um. . .embroidering the bullies gym uniforms."

Embroidery? John stars blankly. Is she still speaking English? She reaches down, pulls up a foul-smelling maroon jersey. On the back, carefully stitched, is the word "obtuse."

Not English. John doesn't know what this school is teaching his boys, but it's not English.

"It wasn't a problem at first," Ms. Wesdorp continues. "Nobody even told me. Apparently nobody knew what the words meant. Puerile, cretinous, anserine, asinine. . .but eventually one of the boys pulled out a dictionary, and it was brought to my attention. While we appreciate the vocabulary lesson, this is really not. . .appropriate."

John blinks. "Wait . . .you're telling me that my son is _sewing_ these words on to shirts?"

"Sammy knows how to _sew_?" Dean asks incredulously.

"Of course," Ms. Wesdorp says. "It's part of the seventh grade curriculum. Life Skills."

Dean starts cracking up. John promises to have a word with his son, and forks over twenty dollars to replace the jerseys. A week of detention. Not bad. He has to push Dean out the door, past the pretty secretary. The boy keeps laughing.

"Son," John says harshly. "you stop that laughing or I'll _make_ you stop."

He doesn't stop. John's going to have to practice in front of the mirror.

As they pull up to the motel, John's beginning to get the glimmer of an idea. Maybe, he thinks, his son's newfound skill might come in handy. . .

* * * * *

"Dad, I don't think this is a good idea," Dean says. He's sounding a little petulant, but John can't really blame him. Being flung into a gravestone by an angry spirit can do that to a person. He's holding his left arm closely to his body, having refused to put it in a makeshift sling. He'd reasoned that it would just be a lot of trouble, and they'd give him a normal one at the hospital, anyway.

"I don't think so, either," Sam says. His back is pressed to the wall, and he's shaking his head.

"It's a great idea," John says enthusiastically, thrusting his bleeding arm toward his baby, again. "We just have to test it out, first."

"How about we let him fix the hole in my shirt," Dean suggests. "That sounds like a good test." Sam, apparently, agrees. John shakes his head.

"Completely different thing," he says. "We already know the boy can sew. Now we need to see if he can do it when it's bleeding."

"Dad, my arm hurts," Dean's really whining, now. "I think it's broken."

"I _know_ it's broken," John says. "And we'll go to the hospital as soon as your brother sews up my arm."

"Okay," Sam says. "I'm sorry I didn't come with you and wait in the car. I'm _sorry_ I wanted to do my _homework_. Next time I'll come hunting. Now let's go to the hospital."

John just holds out the thread and needle.

"Dad, it's _gross_!" Sam whines.

"Dad, my arm," Dean whines. John just waits. Patience is the key.

He does feel a little bad for Dean, though. The boy _is_ awfully pale.

One minute. He can hear the clock ticking behind him. Two.

"Dad, it's life skills," Sam says dully. "It's not the same."

"No," Dean says. "Life skills is for pussies. This is hardass."

"Dean," Sam's making the puppy dog eyes. John moves to stand between his sons. Normally, Dean enjoys beating up his baby brother. When the puppy dog eyes turn on, however, all fight disappears.

"Sam," John says, serious now. "Your brother needs to go to the hospital. As soon as you stitch up my arm, we can go."

"But Dad. . ." Sam protests.

"No buts, Sammy."

The eleven year old screws up his face in distaste, sighs, and threads the needle.

On the drive to the hospital, John admires his new stitches. He's going to have to make sure to tell that Life Skills teacher that she'd doing a great job. He pulls his shirt down, so the hospital folk won't ask any questions, and pulls in to the ER.


	4. Why Sam Never Gets to Drive

Chapter Four: Why Sam Never Gets to Drive

John Winchester is getting really tired of the Terrible Teens. He'd been so sure that he was home free in the parenting category. He'd hit every bump possible with Dean. The Terrible Twos, when the toddler had refused to wear clothing and run around everywhere naked, laughing hysterically. Then it had been home free for a while, until Dean noticed girls. Then there were the STD scares, the pregnancy scares, the frequent suspensions and fights at school. They'd made it through. Dean had hit sixteen, and overnight grown up. Dropping out of school, John thought reflectively, might have been the best thing his son had ever done.

In comparison with Dean, parenting Sam had been a godsend. There had been no terrible twos. As far as John could tell, his son _still_ hadn't noticed girls (though that was a bit troubling in itself). The boy received nothing less than an A, and had only been in one fight ever. So when Sam hits sixteen, John figures that he's done with all the major irritations of parenthood.

He's wrong. He's very, very wrong, he realizes.

"Dad, I don't _want_ to go on another hunt," Sam whines, sitting on one of the motel beds. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he's glaring up from beneath too-long bangs. "I have an AP test tomorrow. Do you get that? I could get _college credit_."

"Don't worry, kiddo," John says. "We'll be back in plenty of time for your test."

Sam glowers some more. John rubs a hand across his face. The kid has a hell of a bitchface. He looks like Mary used to, whenever she wasn't getting her way.

"No, Dad," Sam says. "I have to study."

"You can study in the car," Dean says, trying to mediate, as ever. John nods his head. Great idea. It's an hour ride to the haunting. . .plenty of time to study.

"I need more than two hours of mullet rock to study," Sam grouses. Dean spreads his hand.

"No music," he promises. "I'll listen to my walkman." Dean elbows John in the side.

"Right," John says. "Me, too. Complete silence, all the way there and back."

"I need at least three hours," Sam pouts.

"Well. . .you can sit in the car," Dean says. John is _not_ so pleased at this compromise. He's trying to teach the boys about responsibility, about how to protect themselves. Because that Yellow Eyed Demon has to die, and John is afraid but willing to admit that he might not be able to do it. Because with every year he gets a little older, and somehow that demon seems to get a little stronger.

"Then why do I have to come at all?" Sam points out, and it's not unreasonable. John sighs.

"We'l bring the walkie talkies," he says, finally. "It's a three man job, Sammy, but we'll try to do it with just Dean and me. We need you as back-up, though."

Sam opens his mouth, probably to complain some more, but John cuts him off. "It's family, boy," he snaps, and there is more iron in his voice than usual. He walks out the door, his DeanShadow comfortably at his back. He relaxes a little, though, when his younger son finally clomps out, locking the door behind him.

Sam worries him. John isn't sure that his son knows what's going on, exactly, isn't sure that Sam realizes that this is somehow all about him. He doesn't think Dean knows, even, and isn't about to tell the boy. There's a dark world around them, and the boys need to know that. A demon killed their mother, and the boys need to know that. They _don't_ need to know that the demon seemed more focused on the baby Sam than the mother. They don't need to know that the baby had a drop of blood trickling out the side of his mouth when John scooped him out of the baby carriage. And they _definitely_ don't need to know what the demon said before it left.

Still. The thought that Sam might leave their family – a very real possibility, with this talk of college credit – is terrifying, because he will be completely _alone_.

Dean, out of habit, turns on the car radio. Sam promptly whacks his brother with his fifty pound history book.

"Sorry, princess, jeez," Dean turns it off, pulls his walkman out of the glove compartment. "You don't need a gun, Sammy, just throw that thing at the ghosts."

"It's _Sam_," the teenager says. "And shut up, jerk."

"Bitch," Dean says amiably. John sighs and pulls out of the lot.

* * * * *

It's not a three person job. John knows it, and Dean knows it, even if Sam doesn't. Just one pissed off spirit in a rambling house. Still. He wants Sam in there with him. Wants him to be a part of things.

Dean always want to be let in on the hunts. What is wrong with the younger kid?

"You said I could sit in the car," Sam reminds them. "I'm not going in there."

"Who's going to have your brother's back?" John asks, and yes, he can be devious, too, when he wants to.

"You could try having it for once," Sam snots, and that's it, too much, but Dean has already grabbed one walkie talkie and pressed the other one into his brothers hand.

"Shut up, both of you," he says. "Sam, get in the driver's seat. If we need to get out in a hurry, that's your job?"

"Really?" Sam asks, and John is a little mollified that there's a bit of life in the kids' face. "I can drive the Impala? Really?"

He wants to hit himself. Of course. Best way to satisfy a cranky sixteen year old? Give them car keys. He should have remembered that from Dean's teen years.

So John places the keys in his baby's hands, grabs the shotgun that his older son is holding out, and walks into the rotting building.

Run hour later he runs back out, his son just at his heels, and throws himself into the Impala.

"Sam, drive!" he shouts.

For once the kid doesn't argue, just drops the history book and starts the car. They move away from the building at a sedate 25 miles on hour.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean screams from the backseat. "Drive!"

"I am driving," Sam says placidly. "We're in a residential zone. The speedlimit is 25 miles per hour."

"Step on it, boy!" John yells, at the same time that Dean says "You're driving a getaway car, moron!"

Sam sighs, and presses down on the accelerator a little harder. They're now going about 30.

"Do you see it?" John is craning around in his seat, trying to get a look at the noxious green gas that chased them out. He's not sure it can leave the house. He's certain that none of them should breathe it in. He can't get a clear look, and doesn't dare open his window to stick his head out.

"It's coming," Dean says, a better vantage point with the rear window. "It's gaining on us! Sam, drive!"

"Look, we're not any better off getting stopped by the police," Sam points out in his "reasonable" voice. There's a cracking sound from the back of the car.

"What the hell was that?" John's voice is pitched a little high. He's not ashamed to admit it.

"It's trying to get in," Dean whispers. "Sam, please!"

"Fine," Sam says, and finally starts driving at a breakneck speed.

Until they hit a red light.

Another cracking sound from the backwindow.

"D-Dad," Dean says, sounding scared. "I think it's getting in!"

John leans over and whispers into Sam's ear, "your brother dies if that thing gets in. We need to get to the lake. _Now_."

They make it the last twenty miles in less than five minutes. John is a little terrified. Still, all three of them lurch out of the car, throw rosary beads into the lake, and dive into it, just a hairs breadth ahead of the green fumes, which have somehow, unbelievably, followed them the entire way.

Which, luckily, seem to be lacking any brains, and follow them into the holy water. Where they dissipate.

"I thought it was just a ghost," Sam gasps.

"So did we," Dean says.

John turns to his younger son. "New rule," he says. "Sam, you are never driving that car again."

"What? Why? Because I was driving safely???"

"NEW RULE!" John is the one screaming now. It's for emphasis.


	5. Why the Driver Picks the Music

John Winchester loves his wife dearly. He loves her more than his leather jacket, loves her more than his car, loves her more than his good for nothing parents who had taken off when he was sixteen. He loves her more than his boys, and he _knows_ that's not something that's he's supposed to do, but there it is.

He loves his wife more than anything in the world, but sometimes he's a little scared of her, too. This is one of those moments, sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, Dean making choo-choo noises in the back seat while Sam just snores gently. His wife has a gun pointed at his head, her eyes on the road, and is speaking in that no-nonsense voice.

Which is silly, really. Everybody knows that Mary wears the pants in their relationship.

Which isn't to say that John never gets his way. She'd wanted to name their oldest son "John", after him. Which was touching, but just confusing. Besides, John was a boring name, and he didn't want his son to have a boring name. It should be something cool. Like Dean, after Dean Martin, James Dean, or Dean Torrance. They'd argued on it for a long time. Then had come the birth.

Mary was tough. But Dean was a freakin' _huge_ baby, and they'd doped up his pretty little bride until she was high as kites. So when the doctors had come in with the birth certificate to sign, John had taken a look at his loopy wife, and signed it. With a _cool_ name.

He'd slept on the couch for a month.

Then had come Sam. Another argument. He wanted to name the new baby Samuel, after Mary's father. She wanted to name him John. Still.

Sam had been a big baby, too.

So, despite the fact that his wife can be pretty damn scary, John Winchester has figured out how to get his way. Usually. This, apparently, is not one of those times.

In one of his attempts to get to know more of Mary's reclusive family, he'd suggested a road trip to South Dakota, to meet her Uncle Bobby. For once, Mary had seemed excited at the prospect, and they'd all piled into the Impala. Everything had gone well until they'd hit the rest stop. He remembers that, clearly. The moment everything went wrong.

"Seriously?" Mary asks, holding Dean's hand as they walk in. "What kind of a dump is this, John?"

"We don't have a lot of choices," John points out. "The kid has to pee."

Indeed, Dean is doing his pee-pee dance, hopping up and down on one leg, the other hooked behind his ankle. Mary sighs, and points her son toward the bathroom.

"I want a cookie!" Dean shouts loudly, while being herded off. "And chocolate cake! And a hamburger! And pie! And a milkshake!"

"John," Mary says warningly. He nods. He knows what she wants. Chicken fingers and apple slices for the boys, a chicken salad for the two of them.

It's really not that bad of a place, for a Midwest rest stop, John thinks, once they are all comfortably ensconced in a booth. The food is fresh, the salad nod even wilted. And they're playing good music.

"Exit light," Dean is singing under his breath and through mouthfuls of chicken fingers. "Exit light, exit light."

They appear to be the only words he knows of the Metallica song. Sam burps.

"Kid's got good taste in music," John says, shoveling lettuce into his mouth. He tries not to make a face. Rabbit food. Mary rolls her eyes.

"Don't worry," she says. "I'll break him of it."

John sets Sam in the carseat when they get back to the car, buckles in Dean, and then heads to the passenger seat. It's Mary's turn to drive.

He does, however, make sure that they're on the classic rock station before they pull out.

"Seriously?" Mary says , smoothly sliding into the left lane of the expressway. "Can't we listen to something else?"

"There's nothing better on," John says nonchalantly. There's a click as Mary's teeth come together.

"I am sick of listening to this trash," she says. "Three hours up here, and an hour in that pitstain. _Find_ something else."

So John flips idly through the stations. There's classical music on one, a pitchy country singer on another. Garrison Keiller. Npr.

"Nothing else," he says, flipping back to classic rock. Mary's jaw is clenched tight.

"John," she says tightly. "I don't want to listen to this."

John shrugs. He loves his wife dearly, but he _hates_ her taste in music. So he'll keep it on classic rock. Driving the Impala makes her nervous, and she'll never take a hand off to change the station. In the back seat, Sam is miraculously asleep _again_ and Dean is happily running his toy train over the baby's arm.

There's a click. John turns to see his wife pointing his own revolver at his head. Her gaze is still on the road ahead.

"I _said_ that I don't want to listen to this. Turn it to country."

"But I don't like"

"Do it," in that non-nonsense voice. John sighs and does what his beautiful wife says. Because he has this niggling feeling that she really might pull the trigger.

"New rule," Mary says tightly. "Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cakehole."

**Coming Soon: Why The Winchesters Use Classic Rock Aliases**

**Got an idea? Let me know!**


	6. Family Always Comes First

**AN: Chapter Seven will be the rock aliases, and then Chapter 8 will be the final chapter: THE ULTIMATE ENDING!!! Unless, that is, anyone has a good idea for another Winchester rule?**

**BTW, sorry this one is kind of depressing. Just watched the last episode, and I thought I would try my own take on why John coming home and finding Sam gone was so traumatic for Dean. Poor Deanie. . .it's not perfect, but I'm jetlagged and tired, so. . .there you go!**

Chapter Six:

Why Family Always Comes First

John Winchester is exhausted. He's fought a number of difficult foes over the years: Wendigos, ghosts, werewolves, and even a demon or two. Nothing he's ever seen had prepared him for Bon Temps, though: friendly vampires, evil vampires, shapeshifters, werewolves and psychics. . .it stills gives him a headache to think about it, and that's after a straight two days of driving. He can't wait to get home to his boys.

As he pulls up to the motel, however, he can sense that something is wrong, something is off. He glances at the clock on the dashboard. One am. On a Wednesday. It is Wednesday, right? The boys should be asleep. Sure, it's possible that Dean feels like staying up all night, but it's unlikely that Sam will put up with it on a schoolnight. So there is really no reason that all of the lights should be on.

No reason. . .unless something is wrong.

Johns' heart clenches in his chest. He's always worried, leaving the boys behind. Then again, he's always worried when he takes them with. They're big, now, though, almost adults. Dean just turned eighteen. He's legally an adult. And they know the rules. . .they know to lay the salt lines, to shoot first and ask questions later. They can identify shapeshifters, they're excellent marksmen. . .

Maybe it's a federal holiday, John reasons. Maybe there isn't school tomorrow.

He stills grabs the saw-off out of the Impala's trunk. He still clenches a flask of holy water in his left hand. And he still throws open the door without knocking.

He is met immediately with the muzzle of the gun. He lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Dean," he says gruffly. The gun drops, and he finds himself face to face with his oldest son. His very haggard, very rough-looking older son.

Dean looks like he hasn't sleep in days, with lines etched into his face that belong to a much older man. There are dark bags beneath clouded green eyes. A rough stubble covers his jaw. On an older man it would be a beard. On the youth, its patchy and ill-kempt.

"Dad," he says, and almost falls into his father's arms, his voice gruff and broken. John closes his arms around his son. Dean feels. . .lighter. . .beneath his grasp. He wonders if the boys had been eating all right. He'd left them money, and they were more than capable of coming up with more on their own. . .

The room, he realizes suddenly, is unusually silent. Only one gun had pointed at him when he'd walked in the door. And, even more telling, only one thing could cause the normally stoic Dean to burst into tears in his daddy's arms.

John freezes, images of his wife burning flashing through his head. No, he thinks. No. It's not right. It's not fair. Not Sammy. . .not his baby. . .

"Dean," he says. He doesn't push the boy away. . .he's afraid to, afraid to see the sorrow in the boys eyes. If he doesn't see it, it doesn't have to be true. "Dean, where's Sam? Where's your brother?"

"I don't know," Dean shudders. His voice cracks again. He takes a deep breath, straightens up. One arm slides across his eyes, and between one blink and the next, John has lost sight of his son. In his place stands a perfect soldier. Still drawn, still haggard, but a soldier nonetheless. Something has died in his face.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" John asks, and now his fists are clenching. He's angry, he realizes, pissed off, and frustrated. He could never take out his anger on his son, but standing in front of him is a soldier. John knows how to deal with soldiers. "You had one job, Dean. One. Take care of Sammy."

"Yes sir," the soldier says. His back is straight. "I know, sir."

"So where is he?" John grinds out between his teeth. His lower back is aching, his leg cramped. One shoulder was dislocated while he was in Louisiana. . .it still aches. His sprained knee tries to pull him down. And a concussion. He needs sleep. He needs food. He _needs_ to find his son.

"He ran away," the soldier said. "Two weeks ago. He had soccer practice after school. When I went to pick him up, the coach said he'd never showed up."

Okay. John tried to think logically. Okay. Except that it wasn't like Sammy not to show up. His sons were both punctual, but Sam was a dork on top of it. He hated letting people down.

"Did you"

"I checked for signs of a struggle," the soldier said. "Treated it like a case, sir. I asked his friends, everything. There's been no sign of a kidnapping, or supernatural activity. Besides, I found this."

The solder reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper, wrinkled and soft from being folded and unfolded a thousand times. John unfolds it one time more.

He reads it, his eyes scanning the pages. He sighs, breathes out, and folds the paper back.

"I know where he is," John says. He does, too. The small, abandoned two story they'd seen driving in to Flagstaff. Sam had asked why they couldn't stay there, if nobody lived there. A golden retriever had lain in the yard, its tongue lolling out. Sam had asked if they could have a dog. Ever since he was five, he'd begged for a dog. The house has an apple tree in front of it.

"You do?" the soldier disappears for a moment, and his son peeks through, anxious and excited. "Really?"

"Check the abandoned house off Highway 92?" John asks.

"Of course," Dean says. "Sam liked it so much when we first came here. It was the first place I looked."

Which was the mistake, of course. John almost smiles. His sons think alike, so much so that it almost scares him, sometimes, but Sam has always been the sneakier one, more clever and capable of deceit. He is in that house, John is willing to stake his life on it. But he will have anticipated Dean arriving, immediately after reading the letter. He wouldn't have moved in for a day or so.

"Come on," John says, gesturing toward the Impala. "Let's go find your brother."

They clamber in together, John's limbs creaking with every move. He closes his eyes for a moment after turning the ignition, feels the leather cradle his body. Everything hurts, and he is so tired, so damn tired. He turns on the headlights, pulls out of the driveway.

He feels better now, being on the road, taking some action. He is confident in his son. He is sure that Sam is all right. The boy can fend for himself. He glances toward the passenger seat. He is more worried about Dean.

"So, what have you been doing for these two weeks, with your brother missing?" he asks. He means it as a tease, but Dean stiffens, and the soldier returns.

"Looking for him," he says flatly. There is a lack of anything in it. John's head jerks to the side again. Finality. Looking for him. Suddenly, with a dip in his stomach, John is fairly certain that, indeed, is all that Dean has been doing.

"How is school?" he asks.

"I dropped out," Dean says.

The car swerves, pulls to the side of the road. John needs a moment. He needs a moment to calm his shaking nerves, needs a moment to make sure they don't careen into a tree or oncoming traffic. He steps out of the car, shakily.

His sons are not high school drop-outs.

His sons are _not_ drop-outs.

His fist flies into a tree. Mary, he thinks, good God, Mary, what have I done to these boys? Where did I go wrong?

Dean has left the car, too, and with a small cry runs to John's side, grabs the hand before it makes contact with the tree.

"Dad, stop!" he says. "what are you doing?"

But the first needs to go somewhere, it needs to hit something. It hits Dean on the side of the face, one high cheekbone. He takes it like a boxer, letting his whole body swing with the hit. Stays on his feet.

"What the hell is wrong with you, boy?" Johns roars. There is a coppery taste in his mouth. Dean just stares at him, wavering between boy and soldier. John refuses to see the boy. He needs to see the soldier, right now. He reaches over, shoves the soldier back a step.

"That's weakness!" he says. That's lost opportunity, his heart thinks. That's dedication to a losing war. That's signing a death warrant. "That's a liability," he growls. "What the hell am I supposed to do with a soldier without even a high school diploma?"

He only needs six credits. John closes his eyes. He went to war because of six credits.

"Dad, it's just a sheet of paper."

"Screw you, kid," John says. He swings again, connects with the other cheek. "Fuck you. You think your mom would have wanted this?"

The other cheek, because he can see Mary now, glaring at him. You let him drop out? She asks. Its an accusation. The fists need to go somewhere, and some unlucky soldier is standing in front of him.

"Where the hell do you get off? Who the hell gave you an order to stand down?"

Two more jabs, left and right. But the answer, then, quiet and soft.

"You did, sir."

John blinks, because in those quiet words the soldier has disappeared, and Dean is standing in front of him again. Dean, his son, with cheeks bruised red and pink. Dean, with haunted eyes and a two big shirt. John's heart breaks again. He's just a kid.

Mary is still standing there, still accusing.

"Dean, I. . ."

"I'm sorry," Dean says. "I'm sorry I let you down."

"No, you. . ." you didn't, John wants to say. You never could. I let myself down. I let your mother down. But nothing comes out.

"I just. . .you told me to take care of Sammy. I failed, and I. . .I had to find him, Dad. You told me. You told me that was my job."

Of course. John's knuckles throb, but it is nothing compared to that feeling gnawing at his gut. Of course. The three most cardinal rules of their family, the bread and butter by which Dean has been fed.

Lay the salt lines.

Shoot first, ask questions later.

Take care of Sammy.

John has always taught his sons to put family first. Always. Standing there, a near-deserted highway in Arizona, he wonders if maybe he should have listened more to his own rules.

"Dean," he says, his tongue thick. His son takes a step back from him. The walls are coming up again, John sees, and he curses himself for teaching his son how to build them. Curses himself for putting his boys into a world where they need those walls.

He sighs. "Come on," he says finally. "Let's go find your brother."

When they pull up in front of the house, the dog comes out to greet them, brown eyes happy, tail wagging high in the air. Neither Dean nor John pet the thing, but it still follows at their heels as they walk up to the front porch. John doesn't bother to knock. He just wants this night over. He opens the door, and Sam glances up sheepishly from where he's sprawled across a leather-couch. Pizza boxes litter the room, and the whole place smells faintly of Dr. Pepper and Funyons.

"Bones, wha --?" Sam glances up from his book. He eyes light on Dean and John, and he sighs.

"Come on," John says gruffly. "Time to go home."

For once Sam doesn't argue. He leans over and laces his shoes, pats the dog on the head, and gives John a short hug.

"I missed you," he says, his face buried in John's leather jacket.

"Let's go home," John says. It strikes him how wrong this statement is, home being a motel room with broken cable.

Neither he nor Dean say anything on the ride home, although Sam chatters about how he'll be excited to go back to school, and how running away was okay, but it's really hard to do homework just by getting the work from his friends. Dean looks like he's going to be sick when Sam mentions getting the work. John doesn't blame him. Dean had done everything by the book – asked the questions at the beginning, probably didn't bother to go doublecheck later. He would have done the same thing.

He parks, and the boys climb out of the Impala. He stays behind a moment, focusing on the light spilling out of the motel room.

Take care of Sammy, he'd told Dean.

Take care of the boys, he's said to himself.

Family first. He takes a deep breath, tries to remind himself. The Winchester credo. He'd better start following it himself.

Family first.


	7. Why The Winchesters Use Rock Aliases

Chapter Seven

Why the Winchesters Always Use Rock Aliases

John Winchester is used to the emergency room. Sometimes, it seems more like home than the myriad tacky motel rooms that they constantly find themselves in. In every town, in every state, there's always an emergency room, and it's always more or less the same. Harried nurses, annoyed doctors, and vague coloring that walks the line between light blue and green.

He's had stitches done in emergency rooms, concussions checked, and even a broken bone or two set. This is, however, the first time he's had to bring in one of his boys, and suddenly the whole place looks a bit. . .malevolent.

"Now, Dean, remember," John says. "In the hospital we have to use our code name. So the doctors aren't going to call me Mr. Winchester."

"I know, Dad," Dean says snottily. He's taken to being a know-it-all ever since he turned seven. Even now he has his nose pointed toward the sky. "Maybe you should remind Sammy. He's the baby."

John sighs, and glances in the rearview mirror toward his younger son. Sam meets his eyes in the mirror, and rolls his eyes. John chokes back a laugh. Sam came into the world with an attitude, refusing to cry and just glaring, red-faced at nurses while they blew air into his face. And even now, bundled into a child's seat in the back of the Impala, a huge towel wrapped around his head to stop the bleeding from where he'd toddled into the sharp end of a table, he manages to be stubborn.

"Okay, then," John says. "Dean, what is our top secret code name?"

Dean screws up his forehead, clearly trying to come up with it. Sam giggles in the back seat. John takes another look. The toddler's eyes are bright and aware – maybe the bump on his head isn't so bad, maybe they don't need to head to the ER. . .then again, John thinks, there's no such thing as too careful.

"Foud," Sam chirps, and he's as close as he can possibly be without the ability to pronounce his Rs.

"Yeah," Dean says. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Ford. I knew that."

John doesn't even look at his son. His lips twitched again.

"I did," Dean says petulantly. "I just wanted to see if Sammy remembered.

* * * * *

John is so tired of heading to the principal's office. So very, very tired. If it's not one thing, it's another. It's to the point where he doesn't even have to say anything to the secretary, she just shrugs and points him in. Sure enough, there's Dean, scrunched up in one chair, a blank expression on his face. And the principal, staring at him in despair.

"What is it this time?" John asks wearily. The woman, just as weary, glances up at him.

"Oh, Mr. Lincoln, thank you for coming in," she says. She doesn't bother to get up and shake his hand. John doesn't mind. He just glares at his son.

"What's Dean done this time?"

"He forged your name on a field trip slip," she says. John pauses for a minute. A field trip? Did Dean. . .he tries to think back, recalls that Dean might have mentioned something. . .a museum, or something, right? He shakes his head. More disturbing than his inability to remember the museum, however, is the fact that Dean has been caught at forgery. Something he should be a master of. It's embarrassing.

"You're in big trouble, mister," he says to Dean, then turns back to the principal. "If you don't mind my asking, how did you catch him?"

"Well, it's the strangest thing," the principal says, and indeed, she does have a strange expression on her face. "You see, he signed the form John Martin. Isn't that the darndest thing?"

John closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Not again. "Yup," he agreed. "Darndest thing."

* * * * *

John Winchester is driving ninety-five miles an hour. Which wouldn't be so insane, if he weren't in a residential area. Still, his head is still ringing from the call from Bobby. More specifically, the call from Bobby that his phone recognized as being from a hospital.

"Dammit, Bobby," John growls. The wheels of his car screech as he pulls around the corner, nearly running over a little old lady exiting. She's pretty quick on her feet, luckily, for a woman in a walker. John is out of the car before the wheels have even stopped moving.

"Where are they?"

The trucker hat is easier to spot than even the uniforms of triage nurses, and John thinks that he might have steamrolled that same old lady on his way to his best friend. "Bobby," he growls, grabbing the other man by the collar and pulling him up, so they stand chest to chest. "Where are they? Where are my sons?"

"Hi, Daddy," Sam pops up out of nowhere, all careless curls and ruddy cheeks. A butterfly bandage covers a pair of stitches over his left eye. His tongue is lolling out, indolently licking a lollipop nearly the size of his hand. "Look at the lolly that Uncle Bobby got me. It's big! It's. . ." Sam frowns for a moment, and spreads her arms out as wide as possible. "It's this big!" he says proudly. John almost chokes on his relief, it's so palpable.

"Thank God," he says and ruffles his sons hair. Neither Bobby nor Sam seem terribly upset, so he has to assume that even though he doesn't see Dean, that his other boy is all right as well. "What happened?"

"Tree," Bobby says gruffly. Sam grins cheekily.

"It was ginormous, Dad!" he explodes. His holds his arms again. "It was bigger than this big! And Dean bet me that I couldn't climb it. But I could! I climbed higher than Dean, even!" the kid frowned at that, and shrugged, as if fighting with his own integrity. "Well," he said, "Until I falled."

"They fell out of a tree?" John asks. Bobby shrugs.

"Boys will be boys," he says.

This time John does choke a little. Out of all the horrible things in the world, his boys end up in the ER because of a tree-climbing incident. Thank God.

"Where's Dean?" he asks.

"Getting his arm set," Bobby says. "Damn fool decided he had to beat his six year old brother at climbing a tree. Idjit. He fell, too."

"Yeah, I got that," John says with a smile. A broken arm. Not so bad. Sam yawns, and John ruffles his hair again. "Listen, Bobby," he says. "Why don't you take Sam home? Looks like he's pretty tuckered out. I'll stay here and wait for Dean."

"Sure thing," Bobby says. "Come on, midget, let's get you back home."

"Okay," Sam says amiably amble out, and John sits down to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

"Okay, this is taking too long," he says after about two minutes, and walks up to the nurse handling check-ins. "Hi," he says. "I just want to check on my son. He's getting an arm set."

"No problem, sir," the nurse says. "I just need your last name."

"Edsel," John says, the lie coming easily to his lips. The nurse scans the names.

"Um. . .does your son have a different last name than you?" he asks. "I don't see an Edsel checked in here."

John sighs. It isn't like Bobby to be sloppy with the names. The poor old guy must have been pretty freaked out. "Try Winchester," he says.

The nurse scans again. This time, when he looks up, there is a light of suspicion in his light grey eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. "There's nobody by that name, either."

John's heart skips a beat. Maybe. . .maybe Bobby missed something. Maybe the hospital is the actual danger. Maybe. . .he can't even get the thoughts straight in his head, all that he knows is that Dean is missing, and Dean _never_ goes missing. Sam's been known to wander off in grocery stores and department stores, but Dean is always right by his side.

There's only one explanation. Well, two. One, that the yellow-eyed demon has reappeared, to take away the next most important thing to him. And the other, just as implausible; the hospital has lost his son.

"You lost my son," John says in flat disbelief. The nurse just continues to stare at him, implacable.

"That's not possible, sir."

"You lost my son."

"Nobody checked in by those names, sir."

"I was just talking to his uncle," John says. "In the trucker hat. My other son, Sam. They were just here. Are you telling me they were lying to me about where Dean is?"

The nurse opens his mouth again, and John is getting ready to sock him, right in the kisser, when the admitting doors open, and Dean comes walking through, bright-eyed a chipper, his arm casted and immobile at this side.

"Hey, Dad!" he says. John turns slowly, and then, quick as a snake, lashes out and drags his son into a hug. "Hey to you, too," Dean scoffs.

"I thought they lost you," John mutters into his son's hair. It smells like leaves and dirt and little boy. Dean glances over at the nurse.

"Dad," He says, "that's impossible."

"That's what I said," the nurse agrees.

During the car ride back to Bobby's place, John has another thought. "Dean," he says. "how's your head feel?"

"Fine," Dean says. "I mean, the doctor said I might have a concussion, but that it's a real minor one."

"Uh-huh. What name did you use at the hospital?"

"Chevalier," Dean says. "Isn't that our new code name?"

"No," John says. "That is never a code name. We only have five code names, Dean. What are they?"

"Um. . ." Dean thinks for a moment. "Ford. Lincoln. Martin. Um. . .um. . .mustang? And. . .er. . ."

"Dammit, Dean," John sighs. "How hard is it to remember five names?"

"Your names are weird, Dad," Dean says. "Why can't you pick normal names?"

"Normal names," John shakes his head. "And what would be a normal name?"

He was all prepared for Smith, Thomas, etc. Instead he got Page, Plant. Bonham, Jones, Stewart, Jagger, Richards, Daltrey, Townshend. . .

"Okay," John holds up one hand, and thinks, hey, if you can't beat them, join them. "New rule. From now on, Dean, you pick the code name."


End file.
